If she'd smiled seductively at him, Seymour would have been off at the double. But she just regarded him very seriously, very calmly, and though he had been aware from the start of her long legs and lissom figure, he now saw for the first time how truly beautiful she was, and simultaneously glimpsed the real depth of unhappiness beneath the revealed discontent.
Reluctantly, telling himself it was duty's call he was answering, he began to sit down again when the flat bell rang.
'I'll get it,' he said. There was an outside chance it might be Waterson, and he didn't want to give him a start.
But the face which glowered hostilely at him was black.
'Dr Marwood,' said Pamela Waterson behind him.
'I just thought I'd look in to see you were all right,' said the doctor. 'Don't let these fellows wear you out.'
'I'd say it's the hospital that wears her out,' retorted Seymour.
'Would you now? Who are you?'
'Detective-Constable Seymour.'
'Constable? It's been sergeants and superintendents up till now. Does a constable mean we're getting near the bottom of the barrel?'
A rude riposte flared in Seymour's mind but he damped it down.
'I'm just doing my job, sir,' he said woodenly. 'And for the time being I've finished it. Thank you for answering my questions, Mrs Waterson, and for the coffee. Excuse me, sir.'
He pushed past Marwood. Behind him as he descended the stairs he heard a brief exchange, then the door closing. But to his surprise, Marwood wasn't on the inside of it. Footsteps came slapping down the concrete stair behind him and as he reached the vestibule of the nurses' home, Marwood's voice called, 'Constable. Mr Seymour. Hang on a minute.'
He stopped and turned.
'Yes, sir,' he said.
'Look, I was rude up there. I'm sorry.'
'Were you, sir? I didn't notice.'
'Balls. You almost gave me a mouthful. What stopped you? Me being a doctor or me being a black?'
The question was asked in as casually non-aggressive a fashion as it could be, but Seymour spotted it’s have-you-stopped-beating-your-wife quality and responded deftly, 'Me being a policeman, sir.'
Marwood laughed and said, 'I see you all come from the same mould in Mid-Yorkshire. You may look completely different, but inside you're all pretty sharp.'
Compliments now. The apology might have been due, but this meant he was after something. Giving or taking? wondered Seymour.
'I get worried about Mrs Waterson,' said the doctor as they strolled towards the car park together. 'She's been under a lot of pressure lately.'
Seymour unlocked the door of his car without answering. If Marwood had more to say, he'd say it.
He got in the car, closed the door, wound down the window and waited.
After a moment, the doctor said, 'Seems to me you people are making a real meal out of getting hold of that man of hers.'
'Doing our best, sir. The Super doesn't like getting the dogs out for a low-key inquiry.'
This was the merest zephyr of a provocation but Marwood felt it.
'Low-key? That woman back there's a nervous wreck and you call it low-key!'
'I'm sorry for Mrs Waterson's domestic problems, sir, but honestly I don't see that they're anything to do with us. We just want to talk to her husband to sort a few things out, then hopefully we can turn him loose to get his marriage straight. I get the impression they're still genuinely fond of each other.'
And this was provocation at gale force.
'Hey, listen, man, there's no way that marriage can ever be straight. He's unbalanced. More, he's a crook. Is that what it takes to get you people off your arses and going full pelt? He's a crook!'
'And what kind of crook is he, sir?' asked Seymour with what he hoped was just enough incredulity to push Marwood over the starting line. For now he guessed that the doctor's dilemma was not being able to get what he wanted unless he gave what he did not want to give.
Probably what he wanted was for Waterson to be put right out of the picture. But for some reason he felt this would put him out of the picture too.
And at last the explanation came.
'He's the kind of crook who asks his wife to steal drugs for him from the hospital!' grated Marwood. 'Now I haven't told you that. If you tell anyone I've told you that, especially Mrs Waterson, I'll deny it. But it's the truth. Now will you get the dogs out and put the useless shit behind bars where he belongs?'
CHAPTER FOUR
Initially, Seymour's report did little to rouse Dalziel's spirits.
'Drugs again,' he said. 'Shit. And did she do it?'
'Dr Marwood says not. I don't think he'd have told me about it if she had. It's Waterson he wants to get at, not her.'
'Sounds to me very like it's her he wants to get at,' said Dalziel salaciously. 'And what does she say?'
'I didn't ask her, sir,' said Seymour. 'I thought it best to get back here. Also if I'd gone straight back to her room, she'd have known it was the doctor who told me.'
'Give me strength,' said Dalziel. 'Did your mummy tell you always follow doctor's orders, or what? Listen, son, we're not a caring profession, we're a catching profession. It's crime you should worry about, not some black bugger's sensibilities.'
'I don't think his colour is terribly relevant,' interposed Pascoe.
'No? What if he's a yardie boss out to grab the Yorkie bar concession? What are you grinning at, Seymour? Why don't you browse through your Moriarty and see how many offences he's committed? For starters, the sod knew a crime had been attempted, but he kept it to himself. And why did she tell him, anyway? Could be she wanted to oblige hubby and the easiest way to get at the real happy stuff was to screw a doctor. Mebbe Marwood's running scared with all this police interest in the Infirmary so he's trying to get his retaliation in first. Mebbe Waterson's the Mid-Yorks drug king and Mrs Swain was his customer as well as his tart. Didn't any of this cross your mind?'
Seymour, wilting under the assault, said bravely, 'I don't believe that about Marwood and Mrs Waterson. She's really unhappy, I think, and he's genuinely worried about her because he, well, because he's in love with her.'
'Oh aye?' said Dalziel in disgust. 'Forget Moriarty. Bugger off back to your Mills and Boon.'
Seymour, uncertain whether this was his dismissal, looked to Pascoe who jerked his head towards the door. As he went out, the Chief Inspector caught his eye and drooped his lid in the suspicion of a wink.
'You were a bit hard on the boy,' said Pascoe after the door had shut.
'You reckon? You rate him, don't you? Needs stiffening up if you ask me.'
'You make him a bit nervous, that's all,' said Pascoe.
'Me?' said Dalziel in amazement. 'Bloody hell.
Now I've heard everything. Only thing that's making Seymour nervous is getting used to the rhythm method likely. Young Bernadette's clean, by the way.'
'Clean?' said Pascoe, scandalized. 'What do you mean? AIDS? And how . . . ?'
'Don't be daft. No, you weren't around, were you? When he got himself engaged and it dawned on me this thing wasn't going to burn itself out, I passed Miss McCrystal's details on to Special Branch. Well, it wouldn't help his career if it turned out his in-laws were card-carrying Provos, would it? But it was OK. They looked at the family up, down and sideways, and though they'll sing "The Wearing o' the Green" with the worst of them, it's Guinness talk not gun talk.'
'I'm sure Seymour will be delighted to have Special Branch's approval,' said Pascoe stonily.
'Oh, they don't approve. In their eyes, any Irish connection's a bad connection, but I told 'em to sod off and get back to scratching John McCormack records. So, what do you make of this stuff your protégé’s brought back?'
'I don't know. I haven't met Mrs Waterson or this doctor. Seymour obviously thought they were straight. What did you make of them?'
'I only saw 'em briefly, I was more concerned with checking Wieldy was all right. This Marwood, that's twice he's tried to drop
Waterson in it. Twice he's double-crossed the woman by breaking her confidence.'
'All's fair in love and war.'
'Aye, but which is this?'
'You weren't serious about him being a drug-pusher, were you?' said Pascoe.
'Because he's a doctor, you mean? So were Pritchard and Palmer and Crippen and Cream! You have a look at him, Peter. And do a bit of straight talking with the woman. You should have gone yourself in the first place. Seymour's too susceptible. One thing in his report makes sense, though. Here where the woman said if Waterson was staying with a friend, she'd have long legs and blonde hair. She could be right. Let's try to get a line on his love-life before Mrs Swain, shall we?'
'He's beginning to look a lot better bet as the pusher, isn't he?' said Pascoe.
'You reckon? Why?'
Pascoe started ticking off arguments on his fingers.
'One, Mrs Swain was a user and Swain seems in the clear on that. Two, he tried to get his wife to supply hospital dope. Three, it would explain his reluctance to put himself under a spotlight by answering questions about the shooting, even though it was . . . looks like an accident.'
He stood before Dalziel with his three fingers raised like a primary teacher's visual aid. The fat man reached out and took hold of his forefinger.
'Nice,' he said, 'except that, one, he volunteered a statement when he could have kept stumm and pleaded shock which in his case seemed a lot more likely than with Swain. Two, his up and down behaviour makes him sound more like a user than a pusher, though I know the two aren't exclusive. And three, he was touching his wife for a few quid last night, and I've not come across many poor pushers.'
With each argument he forced one of Pascoe's fingers back into his palm, leaving him with a clenched fist and wondering where he could best use it.
Then Dalziel laughed and said, 'But you may well be right, Peter. One thing, accident or not, we've got plenty of reason now to go full pelt after Mr Gregory bloody Waterson!'
'Yes, sir,' said Pascoe, glad to see that the dullness which had descended on his chief as a result of Eden Thackeray's visit seemed to be lightening. 'One other thing, though, about those letters . . .'
'Not those bloody letters again! I wish I'd just burnt the things. You mustn't let yourself be distracted from the real work, lad. I want you back down at the Infirmary really leaning on Mrs Waterson, and I don't mean feeling her up like young Seymour! So don't hang about. It's not long to opening time and we've done bugger-all yet. Thank God Wieldy will be back tomorrow. Have you seen him yet? Sixteen stitches he had on his face last night, and I tell you, you could hardly notice the difference. If anything, it was a slight improvement!'
His laughter followed Pascoe down the corridor.
Perhaps after all there were worse things than the dullness of defeat.
Pamela Waterson was not pleased to be disturbed by her second policeman that morning, but when she heard what Pascoe had to say, her resentment turned to something more guarded, less readable.
'Who told you this?' she asked quietly.
Pascoe shrugged and watched her trying to work out either the informer or her response to the information.
'Yes, it's true,' she said finally. 'A few weeks back, before our final split, he asked me if I could steal some drugs. I said no. End of story.'
'You didn't mention this to my colleagues.'
'Why should I? There wasn't any crime, was there?'
'Come on, Mrs Waterson. He wasn't asking you for aspirin for his headache, was he? Did he specify?'
'No. He didn't get the chance. It was the last straw for me. One of the last straws. I choked him off, told him we were through and left.'
She hadn't asked Pascoe to sit down. People often thought that keeping a cop standing got rid of him quicker. It didn't. He leaned against the back of a chair and studied the woman. She looked calm and controlled, the kind of face you would want to see from your vulnerable hospital bed. But he could sense something beneath it - what was it Seymour had said? - she was very unhappy; yes, that was it, but more too; last straws were still being loaded on her, he suspected. He knew from experience that physical suffering makes you selfish, but there were kinds of mental and spiritual suffering in which the woes of others beat on you like hammer blows, and in that state a nurse might easily feel each death, each decline, in her ward as a personal defeat.
He said, 'Is your husband an addict, Mrs Waterson?'
She said, 'He doesn't inject, didn't anyway, I'd have known when we were together. Hash, yes. Who doesn't? Amphetamines sometimes, and I don't doubt if there's coke to be sniffed, he'll sniff it. But I'd not have called him an addict.'
She sounded defensive. Both Wield and Seymour had felt that her feelings for her estranged husband were ambivalent. Being a Catholic provided acceptable reasons for avoiding a divorce. Even God was sometimes usable.
'When he asked you to steal the drugs, did you understand they were for his personal use?'
'Yes, of course. What else? Oh hell, you're not wondering if he's a dealer, are you? For God's sake, he can't organize his own life, let alone a drug ring! If you gave him an hour glass, it'd lose time. If he was pushing the stuff himself, he'd have it on tap and he wouldn't be hard up, would he?'
She was echoing Dalziel's logic. Pascoe smiled ruefully at finding himself on the receiving end of the same put-down twice in an hour.
Then, resuming his most serious expression, he said, 'Your husband's hard up, you say? Didn't he get any severance pay when he left his job?'
'As a matter of fact he did. He wasn't entitled as he walked out of his own accord, but they gave him a generous ex gratia payment, I suppose because they liked him. Couldn't stick him, but they liked him.' She laughed humourlessly. 'Like me.'
'So where's that gone?'
'God knows. That studio conversion he had done in the attic must have cost. He couldn't work in the spare room, not Greg. Always the grandiose ideas. Had to have his own studio . . .'
Her voice tailed off. Pascoe followed her train of thought ... if Greg hadn't got Swain to build his studio, he'd not have met Gail Swain and she wouldn't be dead and Greg wouldn't be . . .
What the hell was Waterson doing?
He said, 'All right, so you can't see your husband as a pusher. But try this. If someone your husband wanted to impress found themselves short of whatever turned them on, wouldn't he like to project himself as Jack the Lad, Mr Fixit, the man with the best connections?'
She explored her hollowed cheeks with her fingertips, deep blue eyes directed at without being focused on his face. Then she gave a parody of a smile and said softly, 'I thought you said you didn't know my husband.'
'You think I'm right, then?'
'That's the way he is. Especially with the blondes.'
Whatever she said, in the Irish stew of reasons for leaving her husband, sexual jealousy was the red meat. It made the next question easier.
He said, very brisk and businesslike, 'We'd like to talk with anyone who may have had a relationship with your husband. Discreetly as we can, of course. We wouldn't want other families getting hurt.'
He felt a pang of shame at his slyness in offering her at the same time a conscience-salver and an incentive. Which weighed the stronger he couldn't guess, but she replied without hesitation, 'Christine Coombes. Beverley King.'
'Only two?' he said, recognizing his Dalzielesque crassness even as he spoke.
'Two I'm certain of,' she said without apparent resentment. 'Lots of strong suspicions but I'm not turning you loose on suspicions.'
So that was her conscience taken care of. He asked, 'This certainty . . . ?'
'Mrs Coombes I found letters from. Miss King, I caught him in the stirrups.'
'Good lord. I mean, I'm sorry. Is there anything else you can tell me? Addresses, say?'
'No idea. King works at Greg's old firm and Chris Coombes is married to Peter Coombes, the personnel director, so you can see he didn't mind doing it on his own doo
rstep, almost literally in King's case.'
She had been standing stiff and erect during all this interview. Now her leg muscles seemed to lose their strength, she staggered slightly and sat down.
Pascoe said, 'Are you all right, Mrs Waterson?'
'Fine. Look, why don't you sit down, I've been very rude . . .'
He looked at her uneasily. He preferred her strength.
'No, thanks, I really have to be on my way and I think I've taken up enough of your time anyway. Thanks for your help. I hope this all works out for you somehow. Don't get up. I'll let myself out.'
He left guiltily. On the stairs he met a nurse coming up. He stopped her and said, 'You know Mrs Waterson? She looks a bit under the weather to me. If you could just look in casually in a couple of minutes, see she's all right . . . thank you.'
He went on his way feeling slightly better, but not much.
CHAPTER FIVE
Andrew Dalziel, despite what his friends said, was no paranoiac. He did not believe himself to be infallibly perfect or unjustly persecuted. His great strength was that he walked away from his mistakes like a horse from its droppings, and as he himself once remarked, if you leave crap on people's carpets, you've got to expect a bit of persecution.
But when he believed himself right, he did not readily accept evidence that he might be wrong, not while there was any stone left unturned.
Gail Swain was, of course, the keystone, but there wasn't much future in turning a corpse. Philip Swain was for the moment safely bastioned by the formidable Eden Thackeray and it would take a pickaxe to turn him. Gregory Waterson sounded as if he could be turned by a strong ant, but they had to find the useless bugger first. Which left very few candidates for up-ending.
After Pascoe's departure, he took another look at a memo he had received that morning. If Pascoe could have seen it, he would have realized just how desperate Dalziel was getting for this was from the Central Police Computer which he usually regarded with all the enthusiasm of Ned Ludd for a stocking-frame. It read: SAS PERSONNEL RECORDS NOT ACCESSIBLE WITHOUT MOD AUTHORIZATION BUT SEARCH OF ARMY RECORDS REVEALS CPL
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